You Are My Secret
by AlexKirko
Summary: What if House decided to make an effort and find a way out of his misery after ketamine wore off? Cameron gets wrapped up in his search through a drunken Vegas morning, and both soon discover they are quite different in private compared to the masks they wear at the hospital. DISCONTINUED.
1. You Are My Secret

Introduction

I love House, especially the first four seasons or so. The idea for this fic was born when I scoured for a good Cameron/House romance and found 'I Do? I Don't' by ColorOfAngels. It's awesome but not exactly what I wanted to read. Eventually, I gave up on the search and got to writing. I hope you will enjoy reading this story as much as I love writing it.

My goal here is something character-driven and fun, so no gratuitous smut, sorry. Ideas are also borrowed from all over the place, and that includes the Vegas wedding trope that was too good to pass up.

I've also shifted the timeframe. The year is 2015, and only the first two years happened in canon, after that I'm taking liberties with behind-the-scenes events.

Disclaimer: I keep waiting for the rights to House to come into my mail, but they haven't yet. I don't own House, and I'm not making any money here.

Let's enjoy ourselves.

You Are My Secret

House woke up and stared at a poster of Sakura Matou surrounded by black flames.

To be more precise, he didn't so much wake up as stop sleeping, because the horrible headache and the condition of his bladder became incompatible even with the fitful rest of the deeply inebriated. The compost heap deposited right on his tongue didn't help either.

He wasn't supposed to be in his Vegas apartment. This was clear to him even through the thick haze of acetaldehyde and alcohol in his system.

He moved a little and became aware that if he didn't go to the bathroom right this instant, he would ruin the mattress. House got up. His leg tried to scream at him for getting up without Vicodin, but said scream was drowned out by the thunder of copulating elephants that have taken up residence inside his skull.

Thankfully, his cane was nearby, and so it took him barely two minutes to walk twenty-five feet, leaning on walls all the time. He hadn't had a hangover this bad since his residency years. It was around that time that he stopped associating self-respect with bodily functions and just threw up if he drank too much. Unsightly? Yes. But still much better than feeling like a sexually violated sea sponge the morning after.

When the toilet came into view, he contemplated catching up on his vomiting but quickly berated himself: it wouldn't do him any good now. The point of emptying your stomach after drinking too much was to keep the carelessly ingested poison from entering your bloodstream. Once it was there, other measures were needed.

 _Drink. Sleep. Pee._

Yes, that sounded like a good plan for the day. House did his business, thoroughly rinsed his mouth, and limped back to the bed at a much slower pace, testing himself by not using walls for support. When he entered the bedroom, his gaze immediately darted to the nectar of the gods he kept on his bedside table. Then he very slowly turned his head to look at something that caught his attention enough to push through the blanket of chemicals wreaking havoc with his mental faculties.

There was a woman in his bed. He blinked.

Absent-mindedly, he catalogued what he saw. She appeared to be in some pain as she slept, and her skin was dehydrated—signs of a hangover. She also took up more than half of the queen-sized bed, futilely trying to wrap her arms and legs around the mattress or maybe just melt into it. All of this, however, went through his mind on pure auto-pilot as there was something much more important about her.

It was Cameron.

###

When Allison woke, decade-old instincts immediately kicked in. She didn't move and didn't groan, even though her muscles were sore, and her head felt like a mall before Christmas. She was also naked.

Cameron just lay there, tried to empty her mind and waited while sensations slowly flooded into her, registered, and languidly floated to the shelves of her mind library, settling and becoming memories.

She didn't taste bile in her mouth. That was good. The sheets were too coarse—not her hotel room. That was bad. There was a lingering ache in most of her muscles, and she didn't think she had done any exercise after the conference the day before. The evening was a big blob of darkness to her, flecks slowly coming off, but there definitely had not been any sports.

A one night stand then.

And then there came the sound—someone coming—and she really started to panic.

A step and a thump coming immediately after. Step, thump. Step, thump. Pause. All the while she had her eyes squeezed shut. It was juvenile, but she wanted to be able to pretend it was all just a bad dream a little longer.

"Fuck," he said, and the voice made reality impossible to ignore.

She postponed the inevitable by flipping onto her back as slowly as possible, taking care to keep herself covered. There was some more thumping. Then she cracked open her right eye.

The light blinded her momentarily before a familiar shape emerged.

"Why are you standing behind a chair?" Cameron blurted out, wincing at the volume of her own voice.

House grimaced too.

"Didn't your mother teach you to be very quiet after getting hammered, princess?" His invariably sarcastic smile was crooked.

She didn't answer, instead gripping her skull with both hands, willing the headache to subside. Turned out she didn't have magical self-curing powers—go figure.

"For your information, I'm naked," House added. "Close your eyes."

She thought to argue for a moment but didn't have the energy and obeyed. After a few seconds she felt a weight settling on the bed. Suddenly, she was much more awake.

"What are you doing, House! We should…"

She turned to him only to see his rather muscular back.

"We should do what? Find a time-machine? There is a bottle of saline on the stand by your side of the bad. Take it, drink it. I'm going back to sleep."

He reached out for an identical bottle on his side and took a few gulps before pulling the covers tight around him. She wanted to ask him a question about his choice of drink but bit her tongue. Of course it would be saline—only getting an IV drip would be more efficient for getting electrolytes back into blood and dealing with dehydration.

"Your bedside manner sucks, House."

He snorted, she took a gulp from her bottle, and they both went to sleep.

###

Cameron woke up to the smell of bacon several hours later. She went rigid and readied herself for the inevitable wave of nausea, but it didn't come. With a grimace, she blindly grabbed the saline bottle and took two more gulps of the revoltingly salty liquid. She shouldn't have been surprised at House being right: the man was a brilliant doctor who regularly got hammered, after all. This was probably just another Saturday for him.

Her head still thrummed softly, but it was being fair now, because as long as she didn't move, the migraine stayed away.

Allison opened her eyes, pleased to find that the dim light filtering through the blinds didn't disturb her anymore. The fact that House wasn't lying next to her was also a boon. She sat up carefully and looked around the bedroom—she couldn't help but feel curious (finding her underwear was also a priority).

She had been right, of course, about the apartment not being her hotel room. It wasn't, moreover, a hotel room at all, as the bedroom was spacious and the open door revealed a large living room. Both were filled with personal items and little knick-knacks that had no place in temporary accommodations.

She noted some sort of Japanese animation poster on the ceiling, a bra on the chandelier, a photo of a much younger House playing lacrosse…

 _Wait a second._

That was her bra! The memories of her first time waking up were a little hazy, but she was sure there had been no pieces of lingerie hanging up there. She didn't know whether to be angry or impressed. House, with the hangover and his leg, must have silently climbed on top of the bed and set up the undergarments just to annoy her. Cameron snorted; at least he didn't hang her panties. Which were lying somewhere around here. Probably.

Her movements were slow and deliberate as she rose, searched for her clothes, and dressed. Only her underwear survived the night unscathed; her pants were a crumpled mess; her blouse was missing three buttons. In the end, she raided a wardrobe and borrowed a black t-shirt. It was clean and smelled of sea breeze and House.

As Cameron rose, she heard clanking accompanied by the soft hiss of oil. She was happy to find an open bathroom door after walking out of the bedroom, postponing the confrontation at least for a bit. The bathroom surprised her by having a bag of disposable toothbrushes.

She had a hunch and opened a couple drawers.

 _There they are._

Seeing hygienic products for women in what appeared to be House's apartment was shocking. Moreover so, because she hadn't been quite drunk enough to miss flying back to Princeton, which meant they were still in Vegas or somewhere in Nevada, at least. Where House apparently owned a very much lived-in apartment ready for women to stay over.

 _What the hell is going on here?_

If House were a normal person, she would just walk up to him and ask, but he wasn't one. There have been too many times when an innocent question directed at Gregory House set off some elaborate prank and even more cases when it got simply deflected with hurtful evasion tactics. Still, trying to deduce anything about the apartment was just an attempt to distract herself from the glaring fact that they had slept together (and wasn't that fun?), so Allison took a deep breath and walked back into the living room to confront her boss.

The chime of the front door stopped her in her tracks.

"Coming!"

His voice rang from behind a corner supposedly leading into the kitchen, and House himself soon followed. She had to say, he looked much better compared to the morning. Tight grey t-shirt, jeans, bare feet, slightly damp hair. He stopped for a moment after seeing Allison and looked her over before smirking and continuing toward the apartment door.

 _I don't like that smirk_ , she thought.

Her first impulse was to hide, but curiosity overrode it. After all, who would recognize her here, in Nevada? And she was itching to know who was at the doorstep.

House opened the door and a man moved to step in into the apartment, but stopped when he noticed her. He was black, around forty years of age; his clothes could have been called formal if he didn't try to mix yellow and purple.

"Damn, House! Who is the new bird?" And then, without waiting for an answer. "Hello, beautiful! How did the old grouch get someone this stunning?"

The man flashed her a brilliant smile and winked. House sighed in exasperation.

"Paul, you need to be careful with those ties—they look like a gouache kit vomited on them. One day they'll break your gay-meter, and next thing you know you'll really start finding women attractive."

The man made an exaggerated yelp and looked at House in mock astonishment.

"Oh, imagine the horror." He then turned back to her. "Anyway, pretty bird, I'm Paul. Pleasure to meet you."

She tried to hold it in, but being complimented on her looks never sat well with her.

"My name is Allison Cameron. Doctor Allison Cameron."

When the Paul's jaw dropped this time, there was nothing theatrical about his expression.

"Cameron. The Allison Cameron? House, what the hell?"

The doctor in question just moved to push the man out of the apartment.

"Later, Paul. I'm a little busy here."

"Ah, ok. Are you up for playing later today? Weird seeing you here not on your usual date, but—"

"I'll message you. See you, Paul."

He closed the door and turned toward Allison.

"Nice t-shirt, Cameron. Looks great with your nipples."

It was an obvious deflection, but she still blushed and covered herself with her hands. It was chilly.

"Explain, House."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "In the beginning there was the great void, but then God grew bored—"

"For God's sake, House! This is no time for joking!"

"Au contraire, Cameron, joking is the only thing we can do at this point. Wait here."

She reluctantly obeyed, and House limped back into another room before returning with what looked like a framed photo.

"Look, I'm not interested in your childhood—"

Then he gave her the golden frame.

It held a marriage certificate, proudly sporting their names and signatures.

###

"No-no-no…"

Cameron was sitting at the dining table, her face in her hands, muttering mostly indiscernible denials. House sighed, walked to the kitchen counter, and grabbed two servings of scrambled eggs.

"Hey, Cameron?"

No reaction.

"Allison? Puppy-eyes? Princess? Damn. Did I break my immunologist?"

He waved a hand in front of her face. She twitched but didn't look up.

"Cameron? I never noticed how short you are, what with you wearing those ridiculous heels to work."

Allison startled and her gaze met his. She kept her head down, and the expression in her big blue-green eyes reminded him of Bambi.

"Eat," he ordered.

"House, what the hell are we going to do?"

He rolled his eyes and chuckled.

"This isn't funny!" she said.

"I don't see why this is a problem, dear. Don't you love me no more?"

He lathered an extra portion of sarcasm on his words just in case she decided to take it seriously. Cameron snorted.

"You wish. Be serious."

House sat down and started on his eggs.

"Seriously? We'll annul it, obviously. I've already called my guy while you were busy pretending being in a crystal coffin. It will take up to half a year." He grinned at her. "Or were you going to marry someone else in the next six months?"

"What?"

It was good that Cameron didn't start eating yet as she would have sputtered the food all over him.

"Thought so. There is no harm then. And think of how much fun we can have with this! Now dig in. The eggs are getting cold."

She took a fork tentatively, found the smallest piece possible on her plate, divided it in two, and only then put it into her mouth. He found fascinating the transition from suspicion to wonder that followed. Her face was incredibly expressive when she didn't try to suppress her reactions. Which she always did around him when not hung over. He couldn't be sure, but maybe a couple years of constant jibes and mockery made her weary. Nah, she was probably just strange this way.

"This is good."

"You sound surprised."

"Well, yes. I somehow didn't picture you as a cook."

House snorted.

"Please. Scrambled eggs don't make me a cook. And did you think I survived on Vicodin and whiskey?"

Allison was polite enough not to answer, deciding to eat instead. It took her ten minutes to finish a third of her meal while House destroyed his entire serving. Both of them might have been equally hung over (although the jury was still out on that), but he had much more experience with alcohol.

"I think I'm done." Cameron said.

"What's wrong, princess?

"I haven't got this drunk since my husband died."

"Well, everyone can't have the loving relationship with booze some of us enjoy. Although now that we are married, I suppose you will contest for my attention."

Allison looked like she was about to take the bait for a second, but unfortunately it didn't last. She shook her head—it was weird to see her normally perfect hair so dirty.

"So what's the story with the digs, House?"

"Digs?"

"I've been hanging out with Foreman. I think he gets his kicks from encouraging the stereotype. Anyway, don't think you can simply brush off the fact that you have an apartment and friends in Vegas." She stopped for a moment. "Strange. 'House has friends'. Yeah, definitely weird on my tongue."

House chortled and took a sip of water, gathering his thoughts.

"Oh, you are insufferable. Can't we just stove this little fact into a dark closet and never open it? How about it? I've got a Playstation, bet I can kick your pretty ass at Halo from here to New York."

She just continued looking at him expectantly.

"I come here every month, okay? Would be pretty stupid to go to a hotel every time. Which reminds me."

He got up and went to his office where he had stashed the loot in the morning. He could feel Cameron's stare one his back. When he returned, she looked shocked.

"This one visit a month. Is it your 'hooker weekend'?"

House grimaced.

"Seems like Wilson was a bit overenthusiastic with spreading that rumor." He moved her plate and put a thick wad of cash on the table. "By the way, here is your cut, dear."

###

Allison looked at a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills that was thicker than House's forearm. She shuddered; it was still too early to think about any part of her boss neutrally. She couldn't remember anything, yet she was sure that while it had lasted, the previous night had been fun.

Instead Cameron focused on the money. She picked up the stack and counted, taking this time to think.

"House, there is more than thirty thousand dollars here."

"Very mathematically-inclined of you."

By this point in her day she was extremely tempted to slip into incoherent swearing. Nothing made sense anymore.

She knew she still held some feelings for House, because, in all honesty, no woman could tolerate the verbal abuse he subjected her to without some sort of an emotional attachment giving the bastard leeway. She was sure Dr. Cuddy also held some amount of work-inappropriate affection for the hospital's favorite most hated diagnostician.

Sleeping with House while drunk would have been understandable. Even now, stone-cold sober, she was a little bit curious as to what it would feel like. Marriage, though, was another thing entirely.

"—so as I was saying… Cameron, you still with me?"

She jerked and looked at him. His Cheshire cat grin was disturbingly familiar.

"Thinking about the night?" he asked.

He turned away from her and moved to pull off his shirt.

"House, what the—" She froze. "Wow."

His back was a jigsaw puzzle of shallow cuts. She looked at her nails, examining them closely for the first time since waking up. Only one of them was broken, but there was a bit of dried blood under most of them.

"What the hell were we on?" The doctor overtook the sensible person in her. "Once the alcohol started fading we should have crashed, and not done this… I'm on the pill, by the way."

He pulled his shirt back on and sat down.

"Way to state the obvious, princess. If annullable marriage freaks you out, you'd explode from a possibility of pregnancy."

She nodded. She still couldn't believe they had been able to pull off a drunken night, a wedding, and a night of wild sex all while being guttered.

"Anyway, I'm sorry," she said.

"It will heal. In a week or so."

"And you can't remember anything either? Damn." She blushed. "It must have been good. I'm like that only when I really lose myself."

She shouldn't have tried to tease him. Anything she could hope to reasonably embarrass him with made her embarrassed in turn, and House was far more jaded. As proven by his current cat-got-the-mouse expression.

"Oh, do tell."

Well, she wasn't about to indulge him anymore.

"There should be no secrets between spouses, you know," he admonished.

"Weren't you the one who always says best marriages are all founded on lies?"

"Touché."

She turned her attention back to the stack of bills and gestured toward it. It took House a couple seconds to realize that she was still waiting for an explanation. Normally he was faster-than-light fast when it came to hints; she blamed his sluggishness on their mutual hangover. The throbbing in her temples had subsided somewhat, but she would still take another day or so to recover fully.

"As I said, it's your cut," he said.

She eyed the money with suspicion.

"That word is normally used for robberies, you know."

House laughed an open, sincere laugh—she didn't remember him ever laughing like that.

This was when she finally realized what that nagging feeling she'd had since waking up was about. House was different from normal. He leaned on his cane less, smiled without irony at times, and she didn't see him take a single Vicodin since she woke up. He normally gobbled those things up like candy.

"We didn't rob anybody, don't worry. We just hit one of the major casinos. I'm sure it's thanks to you I got let in, so you get half of the profits. Was going to give you a third, but since we are husband and wife now, each of us should get half—I'm pretty sure that's how the law works."

Her eyebrow twitched.

"What do you mean, 'thanks to me that you got let in'?"

House rubbed the back of his head and looked away.

"You know how people say they have a gambling problem?"

"Yes?"

 _Please don't let my not-really-husband be addicted not only to drugs but also to gambling._

"Well, in my case it's more like the major casinos have a problem with my gambling. I have ridiculous luck," he said with a face as straight as can be.

She raised an eyebrow, prompting him to continue.

"I've never lost a game of chance. Not on purpose, anyway."

He sounded almost embarrassed saying this, so, naturally, she tugged at the string.

"Never?"

House nodded.

"Ever played strip poker?"

Hearing House huff was weird too.

"No girl would be insane enough to play against me back in med. Anyway, I'm barred from most major casinos in town. The guards must have been too occupied with you to recognize me, so that is your share."

She glanced at the ring, suddenly realizing where it must have come from. Her boss noticed and nodded.

"Unless you paid for the rings yourself, they came out of the money we won."

She glanced at his hands, and there it was—a gold band.

"Can I look?"

House just shrugged, took off the ring and tossed it to her. Cameron examined the wedding band, and then it was her turn to laugh.

"Oh, this is simply too good."

"Cameron?"

"G and C, together forever."

She laughed again, and House snorted.

"Yeah, sounds like something your fairy-tale-filled mind would come up with."

She tossed the ring back to house and gripped the table with both hands to steady herself while laughing.

"It's your handwriting!" she blurted out.

"No, can't be." House blanched.

Her laugh cut off. Pieces of the previous night drifted back to her. The conference had been dreadfully dull, and they were more than a little tipsy on the complimentary drinks by the end, which was the point at which they decided that hitting the Strip would be a good idea. She huffed another laugh.

"You proposed, House."

"That is ridiculous, Cameron. I resent the idea."

There was no conviction in his voice. She had never been able to convince House into something he didn't want himself—

She cut that line of thought, because that way led to feelings and madness.

"So let me get this straight. Once a month you tell all your colleagues that you lock yourself up with two hookers for two days—"

"Wilson knows."

"—and you fly to Vegas where you win obscene amounts of money."

House smiled and shook his head.

"You have an overactive imagination, princess. I usually just win enough to pay for the tickets."

"And you are friendly with people here?"

"I wouldn't say 'friendly'. More like gaming buddies. None of them live here."

"Like you?"

"What can I say, it's a club."

Thankfully, the day was Saturday and their flight was leaving on Sunday. House cancelled the rest of his plans that day, telling her that they had a duty to each other as hungover newlyweds. She'd been meaning to get back to her hotel room immediately, but shut down the idea when House didn't kick her out. It would have been the right thing to do, probably, but his place had all the facilities to keep her comfortable, and walking for more than five minutes still caused her head to spin.

By the time they were having dinner, she had showered and got herself more or less in order. House ordered Chinese.

"So, dear, will you be spending the night?"

Allison cocked her head.

"Do you want me to?"

House looked stupefied, and she cherished the rare moment when she could get the upper hand in their verbal spars.

###

A little over a year ago.

House wasn't entirely sure how Wilson had managed to convince Cuddy, but he didn't care. Two hours of this and he would be free of two weeks of clinic work. It would be worth it even if he weren't curious about the guy.

The door was simple in design and had only a number on it—42.

He thumped up to it and rose a hand to knock when it opened.

The shrink was a head shorter than him, well-built, and dressed in dark-grey slacks and a deep-blue shirt he didn't bother to tuck in. Brown eyes peered at him, and the man broke into a grin.

"Gregory House, I presume? I'm Matt."

Matt offered his left hand without missing a beat, and House rose an eyebrow. Normally he couldn't be bothered to shake hands. Nobody knew where those hands had been since their last washing, and people never noticed he had his cane, which meant handshaking had to involve redistributing his weight, passing the cane to his left hand, and then back—all for something he didn't want to do in the first place.

Reluctantly, he took Matt's hand.

"Come in, come in!"

House walked into the office and looked around. His powers of deduction turned out to be unnecessary when it came to his host.

"Where is the couch?" he asked.

Matt smiled a carefree smile and shrugged.

"In front of the TV and my Playstation, of course. Why? Do you need a place to lie down and tell me of your deepest fears and childhood traumas? I'd much rather play against you, to be honest."

He gestured House to a comfortable-looking chair in front of a computer with a 27-inch monitor.

"This doesn't look like a therapist office. Do you live here?"

"What gave it away?"

"Socks hanging off the pull-up bar you have bolted to that wall. And the bar itself, I suppose."

The man laughed and sat down. House joined him on the adjacent chair and admitted to himself that yes, it was surprisingly comfortable. It was one of those pro-gamer ones, keeping in theme with the rest of the room.

"So, you aren't going to ask me about my childhood."

"Nope."

"Why?"

"What would be the point? Your friend probably bribed or blackmailed you into coming here, and I doubt he can do it every week or so. It would be much more pleasant and useful for both of us to just have some fun instead of pretending you are about to start a therapy course."

"So, no couch, and your office doubles as your apartment. Are you sure you are a licensed therapist?"

Matt scoffed, pressed the 'power' button on his PC and motioned for House to do the same.

"Dr. House, I graduated top of my class and this practice is as official as can be, with doctor-patient confidentiality and the price tag to match my degree. But I don't view myself as a therapist, that's true."

"What do you view yourself as then?"

"A social prostitute."

House blinked. The line was delivered with nonchalance and good humor one would expect in a conversation that didn't stray from the topic of weather. Matt noticed his confusion and decided to elaborate just as he pulled a gamepad from under the table and fired up Mortal Kombat.

"Don't get me wrong, what I and my colleagues practice is a legitimate medical discipline. What some of us preach is often different, though. Tell me, House—can I call you 'House'?

He nodded, and they started a match. Sub-Zero versus Jax.

"Can your leg be fixed? All its function and aesthetics?"

The question made him twitch and miss a jab that launched his favorite blue-clad ninja up in the air and into a corner combo by Jax that cost him a third of health. He decided that deciding how to evade the question would cost him the match.

"No. Ketamine treatment worked to block the pain for a while, but the lag was still weaker than before."

Matt nodded, finally chipping away the last sliver of health from House and starting the second round.

"And yet some therapists will tell you that they can miraculously heal the mental equivalent of a disfigured or even amputated leg. I don't make that claim."

While Matt explained, his concentration wavered, and it was Sub-Zero's turn to dice his opponent into a mass of crushed bloody ice. Third round started, and the proclaimed not-therapist paused the game, inviting House to ask the obvious question.

"Then what the hell do you get paid for?"

"I can be a very special friend." Matt smiled. "The guy that tells you not what you want, but what you need to hear. The guy you can't afford to ignore, because at a couple hundred bucks an hour you'd be insane to do that. The guy who has the professional qualifications and experience to give you some advice you wouldn't come up with yourself."

"And this bullshit pays your bills?"

Laughing, Matt shook his head.

"Only sometimes. I also teach classes and consult. The fact that my uncle Fred died and left me a fortune in shares also helps, I'll admit. All of this allows me to take only the cases I'm interested in, and isn't that what every doctor's dream is?"

House wouldn't have called his own life a dream, but he had to admit that the man had a point. He pressed the start button and they continued playing. He'd be damned if he let someone who wasn't even a shrink beat him.

When it was time for their 'session' to end, Matt handed him his card.

"I have only three other patients at the moment, so we can meet whenever you feel comfortable. Unlike this freebie, real sessions take three hours. I will not see you more often than two times a month unless it's some sort of emergency."

House chuckled.

"Why would I come back? We just talked. I can have that for free and with much prettier company."

"That would be doctors Cuddy and Cameron, right?" Matt punctuated each name with a gesture that approximated the size of each woman's breasts with uncanny precision. "Wilson says they are fascinating conversationalists. But tell me, while we talked about why my profession is one big hoax, did you pop a single Vicodin?"

House stared. He hadn't touched the bottle in two hours.

"I cannot fix you, House. I don't think even you can fix yourself, not completely. But I can help you reduce suffering without losing your edge."

"Is that what you do for yourself?" he gestured to Matt's feet.

"Oh, this?"

The therapist pulled up his trousers and threw off one of the sneakers he was wearing. His toes were gnarled and spread wide, and there was some inflammation around all the joints. House thought it would be worse.

"Congenital arthritis. Not much can be done except manage the symptoms as any movement becomes accompanied by more and more pain. Or, at least, that's what the official stance on my condition is."

"It usually manifests in puberty. You are what, thirty? You shouldn't be able to move this freely."

The fellow cripple laughed at that and wiped a tear from under his left eye.

"You are the first person in my life to say that as if it's a bad thing. Medicine still has a long way to go when it comes to rehab and managing chronic conditions through lifestyle in addition to medication. I've experimented a lot and asked some good friends, but I have every chance to make it to a point when a more effective treatment will become available." Matt smiled the brilliant white smile of an insurance agent. "And, of course, should you continue our sessions, my resources and experience will be at your disposal."

He put his sneakers back on and led House to the door. The infectologist knew he would be back.

Chapter end notes

Here we go. If you liked it, follow for more—I find this fic ridiculously easy to write. Already have the second revision of the second chapter, in fact.

I would like to again thank ColorOfAngels. I know she didn't invent the Vegas trope, but without her fic I would have never got to writing this one. And I promise, that while the first chapter is similar, my story is different.

A word of warning: I'll be borrowing medical stuff straight from the show, because I'm not a doctor. Also, expect original characters, more background for Cameron, and severe deviations from character in House's case that I'll try to keep believable (that shrink isn't just for show).

This is my first pure romance character-driven fic, and reviews are more than welcome.


	2. Travel and Revelations

Author's Intro

First of all, thank you for the kind reviews! I don't think there as a decent author who doesn't have problems with confidence, and I'm really glad people like reading this fic.

As always, I don't own House M.D. and I'm not making any money here.

Allons-y.

Travel and Revelations

After Allison made her way back to her hotel room, went through all her evening rituals, and got into bed, it was already 10 P.M. She stared at her non-descript ceiling and thought about the turn her life had taken. Cameron wasn't one for overthinking, but this case warranted a bit of soul-searching. She spent half an hour slogging through the mush of emotions, feelings, and traces of the hangover before giving up and going to sleep.

The last thought that peacefully drifted through her mind before consciousness left her was that she wasn't really upset about the last two days.

Next morning, she woke up only after pressing snooze on the alarm clock two times. Everything was a blur after that, as she scrambled to make it to the airport in time. Results of hurrying weren't catastrophic, but they were very visible: puffy speed-dried hair, no makeup and the clothes she had bought for walking around Vegas. The ones that she had worn to the conference two days before were done for: they had wine and whiskey stains, and her two-hundred-dollar blouse still missed three buttons.

House was waiting for her in the lobby when she came down. Only now did Allison notice the size of the suitcase he had with him—it was tiny. It was so obvious now. He didn't need to bring stuff with him because he already had everything in the city. And the fact that he had left in the opposite direction from the hotel on their first conference day should have really tipped her off, although she had suspected a bar at the time.

"Good morning, dear. Sleep well?"

Cameron wondered if punching his grinning mug would be sociably and legally acceptable, but then looked at his cane and gave up. This wasn't the hospital where everybody knew what an asshole House was. After handing over the keys to her room, she walked up to the couch where House was lying on his back and twirling his cane in thought.

"Get up, House, we are going."

He ignored her.

"Get up, House, or I swear to gods above and below, I'll tell Cuddy you tricked me into having sex."

He didn't move.

"And I'll tell her that more clinic hours under my supervision is the only way you can learn your lesson."

Her crippled boss shot up faster than a much younger and healthier man would.

"No need to tell Mom, dear. Onward, to victory!"

He brandished his cane toward the lobby doors and started limping toward them.

She soon discovered that House enjoyed seeing how uncomfortable little postnuptial attentions made her. He held the taxi door open for her when they got in; he beamed at everybody at the airport; he struck up a conversation when the bored-looking woman checking their bags commented on her ring. All of it was so 'not House', it was disconcerting. Worst of all, she couldn't snap at him without looking like a bitch or a loon. Cameron grit her teeth and bore the humiliation with a strained smile.

They finally settled into the plane and she mentally thanked Cuddy for the first-class tickets. This meant less kids, better food, and more space. She tried to relax.

House was near. He popped a Vicodin pill before the flight—the first she saw that day—and put on noise-cancelling headphones. His fingers were on his knees playing a melody she couldn't hear; he softly thumped the rhythm with his left foot and appeared lost to the world.

Cameron was lodged between him and the window—he needed the space between rows of seats—and regretted wearing short sleeves. House wore a t-shirt himself, and it made her all the more aware of his body heat.

"Something bothering you, dear?" he asked, opening one eye and pulling the right headphone off.

"I'm cold," she answered.

House stopped a flight attendant.

"A blanket for my wife, please."

He looked at Cameron with such warmth when he said it, she wanted to strangle him where he sat. The attendant glanced at the rock on her ring finger and scurried off to come back with a blanket and a pillow half a minute later. Cameron was so tired at this point that she fell asleep without even bothering to call House out on his antics.

###

He had to admit that exhausted Cameron was adorable while sleeping. Shame upon him if he ever said the word out loud, as his heterosexuality would be forfeit. But seriously, his subordinate resembled a fluffy kitten at the moment. She clearly hadn't spent much time on her hair at the time and the static electricity of the woolen blanket only exacerbated the problem; she didn't have any makeup on; she wrapped herself up to the neck…

And now her nose started scrunching and her legs started twitching when she started dreaming.

This was the final straw. Cuteness had to stop.

House pulled out his iPod and started searching for something appropriate. It took him three minutes to come up with the perfect mix. First class had settled down by this point, and nobody payed any attention when he very carefully put the headphones over her ears. She jerked when the embouchures settled on her head but didn't wake up.

House smiled the smile of the wicked and pressed play. As fun as it would have been to blast her with one of Eminem's more notable (and not suited for TV) albums or even some basic stuff like Jimmy Hendrix, this was an experiment, and every decent experiment started with the control group.

'Moonlight Sonata' it was.

House watched traces of tension vanish from Cameron's face as she sunk deeper into sleep; a content smile threatened to completely overtake her features. Now that simply wouldn't do, so he pressed next.

Beethoven switched to Britney Spears—he had figured 'Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman' would be a fairly soft progression but he must have misjudged if the grimace on her face was anything to go by. In a panic, he clicked three tracks forward. Surprisingly, Earth, Wind & Fire's 'Fantasy' immediately quieted her down.

House's iTunes collection was his treasure. There were playlists for all kinds of moods: for melancholy, bitterness, frustration… Okay, so maybe not for all of them, but for ones he usually had. Lately he'd been adding a bit more variety to it in the form of game soundtracks and vocal-based lyrics-focused songs (he resented the term 'pop-music').

When Cameron didn't wake up to Charlie Parker's 'White Christmas', he became really intrigued. It was just too good an opportunity to pass, so House turned the volume down and ran her through a gamut of musical styles that took the better part of an hour.

Evidently, she liked Bach, was unsettled by Rachmaninov, worshipped 10.000 Maniacs, and detested most junk on the charts these days. The only reason he even had that playlist was for the sake of irony and for when Cuddy was about to kidnap his iPod. The look on the woman's face when she saw N-Sync playing…

Eventually, he got bored, launched the playlist his therapist had given him a couple months ago, and dozed off to the quiet hum of the engines.

###

Allison woke up slightly disoriented. She could vaguely recall some of her dreams, and she was almost sure there had been leather-clad women there. Britney? Spice-girls? She shuddered, remembering the horrible years when pop-music had decided that yes, two cords and five notes was perfectly enough for a song, as long as you had somebody's ass in the camera at least half of the time.

Then she heard it—violin in the rain. Allison blinked, willing the dregs of drowsiness away. She touched the side of her head, and yes, the things covering her ears were House's very expensive noise-cancelling headphones playing some sort of yoga-themed music or something.

House was nearby, his iPod in his lap, and she suddenly realized where those dreams had come from, but she couldn't bring herself to feel angry. She was never comfortable in planes, but a combination of exhaustion, first-class tickets, and music helped her nod off for—she checked her watch—two hours. She looked at House's relaxed and vulnerable face and felt the desire to do something stupid. Cameron carefully took off the headphones and picked up the iPod. Out of curiosity, she flipped back through the history, until she was reminded of some of the more vivid imagery from her dreams.

 _Damn you, House. And damn Robbie Williams and his 'Let Me Entertain You' too_.

House might have been a disorganized jerk when he knew that there was somebody else to pick up the slack, but this obviously didn't extend to his music collection. Everything was meticulously categorized, labeled and rated. She glanced at him while scrolling through the playlists—actually, could you make a playlist of playlists? A playlists of playlists of playlists? Cameron shook her head—that way lay madness.

It was strange to see House without the customary derision and haughtiness painted on his face. He looked peaceful in sleep. Maybe a little sad.

Which wouldn't stop her from delivering justice. She had found the source of her dreams; it was labelled 'The Bestest Best Mix Ever!" It was pure gold. She carefully put the headphones on his head, leaned in to see his face better and pressed the play button.

A number of things happened in quick succession. The headphones started emitting 'Call Me Maybe' into the ears of a blues-loving infectologist. Said infectologist was violently expelled from his sleep and jerked right into Cameron who had been hovering inches from him for added effect.

In a poorly written romantic comedy they would have kissed and realized they were made for each other. In real life Cameron was a lot shorter than her boss and the distance between them only magnified the difference.

House's chin hit her forehead, and both of them yelped in pain. She then hit the row of seats in front of her with the back of her head when she recoiled from him.

A grey-haired man popped above the back of his seat, an admonishment on his lips.

"Sorry, my wife isn't flexible enough," House apologized, and Cameron had to bite her tongue not to laugh.

The man stared at the two of them.

"We'll make sure to warm up next time," House added helpfully. "It's difficult for her to compensate for this—" He picked up his cane. "But hey, what's important is not to give up when it comes to your dreams, you know?"

The man went red so fast she worried for his blood vessels. He then muttered something unintelligible and excused himself by going to the bathroom. Once he was out of earshot, Cameron burst out laughing.

"House, that was amazing! Even if my head hurts. Ow."

"I know, right?"

He gestured for the flight attendant to come near. The woman had seen the entire exchange and, judging by her expression, the only thing missing from her life at the moment was popcorn.

"Some ice for my wife? For her head?"

"At once, sir."

Before walking away, she added, "You two got very lucky with each other."

The silence was decidedly uncomfortable but didn't last long.

"Carly Jepsen, House? Really?" asked Cameron.

He watched her for a few seconds as if expecting something more and then sighed in mock disappointment.

"Well, that was lackluster. You should have seen Cuddy's face when she confiscated my player the last time I was ditching clinic hours with Stan."

"When did you have the time to switch the song?"

"Magic powers?"

She huffed and rolled her eyes.

"Okay, I bribed Foreman with a day without mocking. All he had to do was accidentally bump into Cuddy at the right moment. And I might have had the song on a loop."

Cameron imagined House sitting in a room with a coma patient, eating Doritos, and having to listen for half an hour to the song every heterosexual male in the country hated. The giggle that escaped her was a half-stifled thing, but it quickly devolved into not-so-silent laughter that bent her in half.

"Yes, laugh at my misery, woman."

"I'm sorry, but this is just too good. And didn't you say it was worth it?"

"Oh, it was. I thought Cuddy would have a stroke. I then told her I couldn't quite get the mood right, and wouldn't she please come to my place to criticize me while I perform the song. It was hilarious."

The attendant returned and gave Cameron a bag of ice which she promptly applied to the bump on the back of her head. She groaned in relief.

"Was it worth it?" he asked.

"Definitely. You deserved payback for subjecting me to the horrors of millennial pop-music. Really, House? Do I look fifteen to you?"

He made it a point to look her over painstakingly slowly, which made her blush and then blush some more at the fact she was blushing. Why couldn't she just stop when she got ahead?

"Like what you see?" she asked.

"Can't say I don't. You are like the hot version of a cuddly teddy bear. The dream of every damaged hormonal boy. And at eighteen you must have looked fifteen."

She paled.

"What, don't I get to discuss her previous husband with my wife?"

"You don't," she said and turned to the window.

The buzzing at the back of her head might have been only the bump, but she could swear it was his evaluating stare. A few minutes passed in silence and then she felt his fingers on hers, prying the bag of ice away from her head.

"House? What the hell are you doing?"

"Let me see. I'm a doctor, you know. At least that's what people tell me." She could hear the grin in his voice. "In reality, I'm mostly stoned on Vicodin and have no idea what I'm doing."

She let him check the bump; she knew she'd never get a real apology from him for prying. When his deft pianist fingers—she had a thing for musicians—gingerly parted her hair, she found herself in need of some distraction. It felt too good when he cared to be tender.

"House?"

"Keep still, Cameron, there is blood."

She heard the zip of his carry-on bag opening.

"It's official now. Only a princess could manage to split her skin by hitting the back of an airplane chair."

"How many Vicodin do you take?"

"Smooth change of topic, Dr. Cameron. You'll have to be more specific."

His stalling was about as subtle as an elephant overdosed on Viagra.

"A day. How many Vicodin do you take a day?"

She felt a wet cotton pad carefully wiping the cut and a bandage covering it.

"There, all better," he said.

Cameron turned to face House and noted that he didn't meet her eyes.

"Gregory House, being embarrassed. Wait, are you embarrassed about taking too little addiction-causing prescription painkillers?"

He still wouldn't look at her.

"I can't believe we are having this conversation," she said.

"Then let's not."

"How many, House?"

He looked at her then, and she didn't remember ever seeing him quite so tired, but then the shutters slammed down, and his smile was back.

"Between one and twenty."

She couldn't see her own expression, but Cameron was sure she was frozen, her mouth gasping for air like that pf a clobbered fish.

"Twenty? Are you insane? You can't, House! We have patients, and twenty Vicodin is enough to make you think that using kerosene as an ointment is a valid treatment option for flu!"

"Actually—"

"I don't want to hear it. We need to get you helpю I'll ask Cuddy, we'll find someone discreet, and maybe you can take a break from cases—"

"Cameron—"

"It doesn't have to be the end of the world—"

"Doctor Allison Cameron!"

She screeched to a halt mid-rant and blinked at House. Her boss looked stuck between amused and indignant.

"Didn't I say it was between one and twenty?"

"House, you are an addict. If you say it's between one and twenty, it's twenty. Maybe it's nineteen once in a while. How did you manage to hide taking them when I was at your place? I counted four."

She frowned and House chuckled.

"Cameron, I'm not taking twenty Vicodin a day, even I'm not that insane. And about getting help…"

He leaned conspiratorially and she only half-managed to suppress a shiver from feeling his breath in her ear.

"It was my therapist's idea."

She moved away from him and stared at House blankly.

"You are going to a therapist. Or are you just talking about yourself in third person now?"

"I'm flattered that you think I'm too well-adjusted for therapy."

"No, I don't doubt you need a therapist. What I'm shocked at is that you are going to one. What the hell does he do, sell you heroin?" She narrowed her eyes. "Or is it a she, and she sleeps with you?"

House actually laughed.

"Damn, Wilson was right—this is hilarious."

"What does Wilson have to do with this?"

"He was the one that recommended the guy. Apparently, Matt worked a Capital Letter Miracle on him. Healed him with God's light, and now Wilson has a non-zero chance to stop himself from chasing a pretty nurse."

"Can he say no to one?"

House scoffed.

"Matt is a therapist, not a god. The day that Wilson will be able to say no to a pair of nice tits accompanied by needy eyes, I'll treat him and all his friends to a dinner in Moscow. And I'll pay for the airplane tickets."

She eyed House with suspicion. Cameron found it difficult to believe James Wilson was quite that bad, but she wasn't his best friend. And she had to admit that most men wouldn't be able to say no in the situation House had described. What was much harder to believe was that House had actually stuck with talking to a professional about his issues. The man hated shrinks, believed their profession to be nothing but a sham.

"So, anyway, Matt had this brilliant idea when I told him no way in hell I'd be decreasing my Vicodin intake. Why not make it a gamble, he said? Why not double the amount of pills I take but replace half of them with similar looking and tasting vitamin duds?"

Cameron groaned and wrapped her face in her hands.

"House, please don't tell me you might have been stoned out of your mind on the past few cases."

"Okay, I won't tell you," he agreed amiably.

"Argh!" she answered with eloquence.

"Don't worry, we lowered the percentage. Now only one in five pills is real."

She blinked at him and asked in a voice as calm as she could muster, "Can I meet your therapist?"

"Why?"

"So I can kill him. The man is nuts!" She huffed. "There is still a chance you'll get an especially lucky day, hell, it's almost inevitable sooner or later."

He looked at her with disappointment.

"Cameron, I was under the impression I was one of the most qualified doctors in the country."

"Yes," she said uncertainly, not knowing where he was going with this.

"Do you really think I can't tell whether I swallowed Vicodin or placebo after five minutes? I am in pain, you know." He patted his leg. "And Vicodin is basically the more legal and very expensive brother of street morphine and heroin."

"But—"

"And no matter what Momma Cuddy has been telling you, I don't snort up twenty pills at once. Don't get your panties in a twist."

She allowed herself to relax when he grinned.

"Although I have to admit, going to work and not knowing how high I will be today is all kinds of fun."

###

"So you are married now."

"Uh-huh."

"And this is why you dragged me out of bed on Sunday and insisted on seeing me. I believe your phrasing was, 'right fucking now'?"

House nodded helpfully, and his therapist groaned. The man looked like shit. No, that was an insult to most kinds of shit out there—there was no age rating invented for what Matt looked like.

"Out of bed? It's 8 P.M., Matt. What the hell happened to you anyway? You look like you've been doing dirty meth and non-stop BDSM orgies for the last three days."

Normally, his therapist was a reasonably cheery person, but right now he glared at him with all the vehemence of a Gorgon.

"Fuck you. And House? Speak quieter. I've got a killer hangover and no, I won't tell you why."

"Had a crap week and decided to drown your sorrows in drugs and sex?"

"That would be telling. Let's get back to the issue. You got drunk and got married in Vegas, so what? Judging by how overused that trope is by the entertainment industry, every second American does that. You'd still be married next Wednesday, during our regular session. At normal. Fucking. Time."

"Wow, I don't think you'll be much help today."

"Gee, you think, Bob? Look, I won't bill you and even give you some free advice. What you've got here is a prime opportunity—a sandbox marriage."

"Because Cameron has the ideals of a three-year-old?"

Matt scoffed.

"Because you have a marriage with an expiration date. It's like one of those financial options things everyone talked about during the last crisis. You can have as little or as much fun as you like, and after half a year or so you just cancel the entire thing like it never happened. Or you may keep her."

House chuckled.

"Cameron would never go with it—she may be a duckling, but she isn't a hamster."

"You mean you won't take the steps necessary for her to go with the plan."

"Same thing."

"Cameron is the cute female one, right? Beautiful, caring, thinks she can fix the world, you included?"

"She'll be devastated if I play that sort of game with her."

"I'm not saying you play her, I'm saying it might be fun to play together with her—there is a difference. Co-op."

Matt was making frighteningly more sense with every word.

"Of course, the grown-up thing would be to tell everyone exactly what happened and just wait for the annulment to come through," his therapist said.

House considered this for a moment, then grinned, and said, "But we didn't become respected, well-paid, intelligent assholes to do the grown-up thing, did we?"

"No, we did it so I could have a hangover at 9 P.M. on Sunday, and you could bribe your employee, who is potentially in love with you might I add, into faking your real marriage being actually real. I envy you, House. The last time I married for fun had been too long ago. Now get the hell out of my office."

House moved to leave.

"Actually, wait. Help me set up a saline drip. I may have mixed some things that shouldn't be mixed. Yes, I can feel it coming now." He started massaging his temples. "Argh, my head!"

He stayed for another half an hour, setting up his therapist for rest and laying out the hangover kit around the man. How fucked up was his life, that this was what a professional relationship with him in it looked like.

###

Unlike House, Allison had more than one friend. Unfortunately, most of them were family, and there was no doctor-patient confidentiality (or any other kind of confidentiality) involved, so family members were out. Her sister or any of her brothers would blab to everyone else immediately, and she wasn't quite ready to explain to them that she had accidentally married her boss. Hell, she wasn't sure she would ever be ready. Speak now or annul and forever hold your peace.

Eventually she sighed and started scrolling her contact list. She was so going to regret this.

"You've reached Julie. At the moment I am either hard at work or getting pissed. He-heh, British English is so funny… What was I saying? Yes, leave me a message, and I'll get back to you some time next century."

Voicemail, great.

"Hey, Julie, it's Allison. Something happened, and I need to talk to you. Call me back."

She then went to the kitchen to have a snack. After ten minutes, her cell phone rang.

"Hello, B-Dog! What's up? Did something happen, are you all right?"

Wouldn't she like to know the answer to that question herself.

"Julie, I told you to stop calling me that."

"It's not Julie, it's A-Dog. I'm hurt, don't you remember? A-Dog and B-Dog, sisters in crime!"

Allison rolled her eyes.

"Hey, I can hear you rolling your eyes, so it can't be that bad."

She laughed, "I missed you too, Julie. And you can't hear me roll my eyes. That's ridiculous."

"Not unless you kicked the habit, and I know you haven't. You need to be careful or they'll get stuck up there one day."

"No, they won't. Which one of us is the doctor?"

"Well, I'm not one, but I have cable with Discovery. And Wikipedia, so I think I'm qualified. Anyway, what's up?"

"I may have got married."

"Oh. Wow. Just wow."

"I know."

"May have? As in, there were no witnesses, and there are no traces?"

"Well, there is the marriage certificate. And the ring on my finger is also a bit of a clue, but I don't remember how it happened."

She waited for a bit while her best friend put the pieces together.

"Oh. My. God. Vegas? What happened to 'never going through this again unless I'm sure'?"

"Believe me, I asked myself the same question many times."

"So. Is he cute?"

"Julie!"

"Hey, I mean sure, you didn't mean to marry the guy. You were probably out of your mind drunk or stoned—"

"I don't get stoned!"

"What about that one time with the blond—what's his name—Chase, right? Anyway, not judging. Sex in a situation where nobody can give consent is sort of what I do—"

"That's disgusting, Julie."

"But I'm sure there was a reason. Anyway, who is it? The blond guy? Or the black guy? Does he conform to the stereotype?"

Cameron felt mortified. She had been right, she was already regretting calling Julie. They might have been best friends since middle school, but the woman had absolutely no brain-mouth filter when not at work. Julie took her silence as a sign that she needed to elaborate.

"You know, about not needing a stick to play hockey."

Cameron groaned and facepalmed.

"Ugh. I think I just threw up a little," she said. "Julie, it's not Chase or Foreman, okay? It's House."

Silence stretched, and all Allison could hear from the other end of the telephone line was Julie's steady breathing.

"Say something."

"I'm processing."

"This long?"

"You are right, there is nothing to process. Are you fucking insane, girl?" Julie could combine hissing and yelling really well. "The misogynistic, narcissistic, abusive House? The one who crushed your hopes at a date you had to blackmail him into? The one that tricked you into getting an AIDS test by false-confessing to you? Okay, the last one is more or less okay, since you were being insane, but seriously? A whole planet of men, and you accidentally married the one that drives you nuts?" Julie took a breath. "What are you, four? Still believing that he likes you because he's the one that pulls at your braids the most?"

Cameron gave her half a minute before she asked, "Are you done venting?"

Julie finally inhaled. Good, Cameron was beginning to worry for her.

"Pretty much."

"He's not that bad, Julie, really. I mean, obviously, we are going to annul this—"

"Wait, hold on. Why annul it?"

Cameron was stunned.

"Explain," Cameron commanded.

"Well, House is an ass and simply horrible, yet you are still working for him. You still have the fuzzies for him—that much I'd guess even if you hadn't told me. And he must have feelings for you, because he wouldn't marry you otherwise—you say he's an experienced drinker. He'd shag you, sure—shag, what a funny word—but he wouldn't take you to the altar and buy you a ring."

"I still don't see where you are going with this."

"I'm not saying it should work out, I'm only saying it could. You like each other. You are willing to put up with his bullshit, and he doesn't treat you like you are a fucking saint for what happened with Bart." She paused before adding. "And he doesn't make it his mission in life to corrupt you."

"Julie, House has me regularly break into apartments."

Julie just snorted and said, "Like that's a big deal for you, please. And you know what I mean. He doesn't view you as a martyr to be worshipped or torn down."

"Are you serious? Whenever he isn't mocking or taunting me, he's making remarks about my ass."

"Only ass?"

"Everything."

"Well, you have a very nice everything. I'd say your everything is in the top zero-point-one percentile of the female population."

"I hate you, Julie."

"And I resent you for your perfect looks, what else is new? Look, annulments take time, trust me. I assume he's contacted a lawyer, since you aren't asking me for help? Send me the info, I'll make sure there is no funny business. And think about what I've said."

Julie hung up, and Cameron was reminded why Julie was her best friend. Talking to her was often like torture, and the girl simply barreled on without knowing that breaks even existed, but conversations with her always let her get a new perspective.

Sort of like with House.

Chapter end notes

Here you go. Please review and follow if you like what I'm doing here. It's difficult to write non-cheesy romance, and feedback helps a lot.

I've also edited the first chapter a bit: tidied up the tenses, punctuation, and what not.

Stay shiny.


	3. Make-believe

Author's Intro

Thank you all for the reviews, you are amazing. I was afraid the House fandom was dead, and I can't say how happy I am that I was wrong.

Fonts:

"For the last time, Cuddy, I don't want to join you and Wilson for a devil's threesome!" – Speech

 _Now, should I mix one laxative pill into that annoying kid's meds?_ \- Thoughts

As always, I don't own House M.D., and I'm not making any money off this.

Please enjoy the chapter and don't forget to leave feedback if you feel like it.

Make-believe

"Who is the lucky girl, House?"

It was Monday, House was late to work, and it didn't bother him in the slightest. What did bother him, however, was Wilson magically appearing next to him when he entered the hospital. House suspected a GPS-tracker. After all, it was something he would do, and Wilson was every bit as devious and juvenile as he was.

Greg glanced at his left hand, and, sure enough, he had forgotten to take the wedding band off.

"Trying to use the miserable husband pick-up strategy, I see." Wilson nodded sagely. "How is that working for you?"

House adapted a solemn expression, turned to Wilson, and bowed waist-deep.

"Forgive this unworthy one, Master. I have failed your teachings."

He then straightened up lightning-fast and even managed a hint of tears when he looked at his best friend. When Matt suggested he start doing basic acting exercises he had been skeptical, but he was glad he didn't refuse. He wouldn't have been able to keep a straight face before.

"Don't cast me out, Master! I promise to do better! I will learn how to wield vulnerability and unavailability as beacons for the female-kind!"

Wilson blinked and said, "You have one more chance my student, or so help me God I will send you to the school of Chase."

"Anything but the school of Chase! It is where men resort to accents and the color of their hair—truly a horrible fate," said House, and Wilson chuckled. He rarely laughed.

Cuddy took this moment to walk out of her office. The sound of clicking was absent, as always—she didn't wear shoes. No, instead his boss distracted half the staff by pushing the limits of the number of blouse buttons a non-hooker can have open while working.

"Good morning, House. How was the conference?"

"It was horrible, my queen. The air was fresh, the sun was shining… Without the cloud of evil surrounding your Dark Majesty I could scarcely breathe."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and stayed back with Wilson while House walked to the elevator. As the doors closed, he heard her ask the oncologist, "What's with the ring?"

###

Cameron had missed her morning jog, but this made it possible for her to arrive at the hospital before everyone and have some time to think. Not that thinking helped much. The problem was, of course, Dr. Gregory House. More specifically, the fact that she was now married to. Things had been fine before: a pang of affection here, a pinch of almost religious belief in his abilities there. It made working for House more tolerable, and so she hadn't attached importance to the crush futilely gnawing at the back of her heart.

The events of the last days were a blender that reached into her and made a right mess of the comfortable reality she had built for herself. Which was why she found herself in the conference room at 7 A.M. in the morning, playing with her ring.

 _Damn, that's a big rock. You could probably bludgeon a very small person with it._

Cameron cringed. Yeah, she was alright. Those were totally healthy thoughts.

She heard Foreman coming and hurriedly put the ring into her lab coat. Then she transferred it to a pocket in her pants—she didn't want to lose it.

"Hey, Cameron, welcome back. How was the conference?"

"Surprisingly eventful." She walked up to the coffee machine and fired it up.

"How many times did House make a scene?"

"Twice. I nagged him into taking his speech on treating retroviruses in infants seriously." She paused. "Or maybe he was just afraid it would get back to Cuddy."

"Or maybe he just cares about the kids," said Foreman.

"Very funny."

She gave Foreman his coffee and was saved from discussing House further when Chase walked in. The Australian never failed to talk about himself, which was always useful when she wanted to fade into the background.

###

Wilson caught up with him while House was valiantly fighting against the vending machine for some Diet Coke. His friend seemed to be out of breath. House finally coaxed a can out and started walking to his department.

"House, seriously, what's with the ring?"

Greg decided to ignore Wilson and kept limping at top speed toward the glass doors. Even though he didn't know exactly what he was doing, the unpredictability gave him a thrill. He walked in, saw that Cameron had finished her coffee, and tossed her the Coke.

"Ask her," he said.

Their eyes met. There was confusion in hers, panic, and then—determined resignation. Agonizingly slowly, Cameron reached into a pocket, pulled out her engagement ring, and pulled it on. House had to will his eyebrows to stay in place.

She took a step toward him. Another one.

He looked at her with curiosity. For once, he had no inkling as to what was on immunologist's mind.

She grabbed him by the shirt and pulled. Rapid acrobatics on his part were needed to keep from tumbling to the floor, but he managed it, only stumbling forward a little. It was enough. Their lips met, and he was hit by her smell: the honey of shampoo and the lavender of breath.

Of course, he kept his eyes open, thoroughly enjoying both the stunned expressions of his colleagues and the blush slowly creeping up Cameron's neck and face. House was suddenly very interested where it started.

He breathed her in, breathed out into her, and they separated. Cameron opened her eyes, frowned, grabbed him by the hand, and dragged him to his office.

He heard Foreman, for once, properly summarize the situation by saying, "What the fuck?"

###

Cameron closed the door, pulled down the blinds, crumpled onto House's couch, groaned, and put her face in her hands. Soft jazz was playing from speakers next to House's monitor. Her ears burned, and an endless train of horrified curses ran through her head _._ She barely registered what was happening around her, but House made himself impossible to ignore.

"I must say I'm impressed. Don't we make a great fit, dear?" he asked, tone lilting and only half-sarcastic.

"That wasn't me," she said, shaking her head as hard as she could without giving herself whiplash.

House thumped a step closer.

"Really? Then who was it? Who made me cheat on my wife?"

"Please stop calling me that."

There were two more thumps of his cane, and then his calloused hands settled on top of hers and tried to pry them off her face. Somehow, the embarrassment heightened the feeling of his rugged skin, and it made her want to disappear even more.

"Cameron."

"Mmhgr!" She buried herself deeper, refusing to come out. Allison heard an exasperated sigh, and then he plopped on the couch beside her.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. There was no teasing in his voice, which was what shocked her enough to react.

She raised her head a little and looked from between her fingers. Yes, there was that trademark smirk—he'd been teasing after all. He used the moment's distraction to grasp her hands and pull them away. Cameron felt more blood rush up her chest and to her face and ears.

"I don't know, I guess I panicked. You walked in with your wedding band on, and Wilson was pestering you, and Foreman was starting to suspect something was up—"

"Excuses." House cut her off and leaned in closer, his ice-blue eyes glowing with mischief. "You liked it."

"No, I didn't! I certainly didn't!"

It was House's turn to roll his eyes.

"I'm not talking about the kiss, Dr. Cameron." He used the same tone and title as when she came up with something particularly asinine during differential diagnosis. "What I'm talking about is the look on their faces: the dropped jaws, the sputtering, the bulging eyes. Knowing that you have just made three very smart grown-up men question reality itself with one tiny kiss."

His smile grew then, and she knew that he believed his reasoning completely.

"That isn't truet—"

"Maybe. But I'm not completely wrong either, am I? Or did you just swoon into my arms because of my manly charm?"

She stared at him, her expression carefully frozen.

"See? It wasn't the charm. Ergo, by the power of deduction vested in me by God himself, I declare that you've joined the Dark Side. Club meetings are on Saturdays at my place. Dark hooded robe and plentiful black goats are supplied, but you need to bring your own athame—sanitary reasons."

Cameron couldn't help but chortle at his solemn delivery. Actually, she wouldn't put it past him to organize a fake meeting of Worshippers of the Darkness in the coma ward just for kicks. The universe was lucky that work kept Doctor Gregory House busy—he was smart enough to become a real-life supervillain. First thing he would do would be to make parent take basic courses on recognizing the symptoms of flu in order to stop bothering doctors with their 'little nightmares'.

"Okay, you win, that was a bit fun. Just a bit." she said. "Now let's go and fess up."

Cameron moved to stand up, but hit the barrier of House's cane. He looked frantic.

"No-no-no! Don't you see? We have a perfect setup here, princess. Something that can easily become the foundation of the greatest prank in my life, and that means the greatest prank in history. And you want to squander this chance at greatness? I say nay! We owe it to the universe to carry it out."

He was careful not to raise his voice, but his words were full of passion. To be honest with herself, she was alarmed at his enthusiasm. And a bit jealous of his love of pranks. She sighed. Cameron had started this day with dumb decisions, and it had worked all right, so why stop now.

"All right, I'm in. What's the plan?"

###

Wilson stormed into Cuddy's office not even bothering to knock. She looked up from a mountain of legal paperwork and groaned.

"What has he done this time?"

He didn't insult her by asking who she meant or why.

"He has enlisted Cameron to convince us they are married," Wilson answered without missing a beat.

Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose and gave a long-suffering sigh. Throughout the years of supervising the smartest and most childish man she knew, she got used to the man's hijinks or at least tried to get used to them. The fact was, House enjoyed getting a rise out of her—out of all of them. Sometimes she wondered whether it would be simpler to just pretend to be awed and shocked every time he made an inappropriate comment about her breasts and be done with it. Hell, if it stopped House from escalating his pranks, she would do it, but she doubted such a basic plan would work for long.

"And the evidence?" she asked.

"Come again?"

"This is beyond unbelievable, Dr. Wilson. House would never attempt such a prank unless he had something that would convince us it was real."

Whatever House's drawbacks, lack of forethought wasn't one of them. He prided himself of outplanning people.

"Well, there is the sapphire engagement ring and the wedding band," Wilson said, but he didn't sound confident.

"Borrowed." She shot him down immediately. "There must be something else."

"Well, we walked into his office, she put on her engagement ring, walked up to House, kissed him—"

"Did Dr. Cameron initiate it? Wonder what he promised her."

"Then they hid in his office, and he had jazz playing, so we couldn't eavesdrop."

"He must be losing his edge if he believes this will work on us. He has had his fun, let's fix this."

She smiled, and Wilson reflected her grin when she rang House's office, putting him on speaker.

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy?" answered Cameron.

That wasn't surprising because House often ditched his phone-calls—they auto-forwarded to the conference room.

"Why wasn't I invited to your wedding?"

Lisa was quite proud of the teasing indignation in her voice. All the immunologist had to do was fold, and they'd be able to go on with their lives. There was too much excitement in her hospital even without House's latest scheme.

"I'm sorry." And Cameron did sound sorry. "House finally proposed, and I just grabbed him before he lost all reason and turned back to being his slippery self. You know how Greg is."

Now Cuddy was intrigued and just a little bit worried. A kiss was innocent enough but straight-up lying to her boss? Cameron was far too proper to agree to something like that easily.

"And when was this?" Lisa asked.

"Well, it was the second-to-last day of the conference, and we had five back-to-back reports on growing bacterial cultures five percent faster than usual—"

Cuddy cringed. That would be enough to make someone do something insane. It was why she sent people instead of going herself—besides being busy as all hell—half of the time you double be better served by playing Angry Birds instead of listening to the drivel coming off the stage.

"—and Greg wanted to leave, but I wouldn't let him. She asked what it would take for us to hole up at home instead—"

If Cuddy's expression was anything like Wilson's, she could take a photo and sue House and Cameron for damaging her fragile psyche.

"So I joked that he'd better put a ring on it before asking me to drop my responsibilities to the hospital, and he did. After that it's a blur: we hit the casinos, won a lot of money, married… Sorry that there wasn't a big ceremony. We would have invited you."

She paused before going for her last option. She doubted that House would be honest when Cameron was lying, but stranger things have happened in her hospital.

"Where is House now?"

"Breaking the news to the team. I see Chase has choking on his coffee, and Foreman is clearing his airways."

"Yes. Right." She rubbed her forehead, staving off the oncoming headache. "Well, I'll expect you two with your marriage certificate tomorrow, and HR will want to talk to you about conflict of interest—"

"Oh, is Mommy afraid I'm gonna play favorites now?" That was undoubtedly House's voice. "Don't worry, Foreman is still my bestest duckling in the world. He got me a car this Christmas! It had a bit of blood on the front seat, but I know a guy."

"House, it's a legitimate concern. You are a menace to this hospital legal-wise as it is, I don't want anything else—"

"Relax, Mom. And I know it's a shock to you, but the kids are all grown up. We've been going at it for half a year, and has the job suffered? No. So just breathe. I'll bring you the papers tomorrow—"

"Aren't you a model husband all of a sudden," Cuddy commented. "And wait, half a year?"

"Please, I just want to see your face when the certificate comes through, and you see that it's not a hoax."

"Can I come?" asked Cameron.

"Of course, dear. In sickness, in health, and in humiliation of others. Just like I promised."

Lisa couldn't take the madness anymore. Wilson crashed into a chair across from her and started to bang his head on the table.

"Erm… Right. I'll expect you bright and early tomorrow," said Cuddy.

"Can't promise, we are newlyweds, after all. There is so much to do! First in the kitchen—"

House's voice suddenly cut off.

"Sorry about him, Dr. Cuddy. I swear, there is something in the Vicodin that affects his hormones—he's far too virile for a man his age. We'll be there."

Cameron hung up, and Cuddy just sat motionless, staring at the phone as if it was about to explode.

"I'll kill him, Cuddy," said Wilson.

"Please don't." She said, although she felt the strangest pull to stick a rusty spoon in House's eye herself. "Do you know how hard it would be to find a head oncologist who is as good as you are?"

"I'm afraid it needs to be done. He has gone too far this time."

The expression on Wilson's face reminded Cuddy of a samurai who was in the middle of committing seppuku. Properly cutting up your stomach took time, and James looked like a man determined about to finish said job.

"I know I'll regret this." She said with another exasperated sigh. "What do you mean?"

"They are married. The certificate will come through," he said.

"No."

Even House wasn't insane enough to marry just to mess with them.

"Yes. I know House, he wouldn't be this smug otherwise. Somehow—" Wilson gritted his teeth. "—that moron blackmailed Allison into marrying his sorry ass for the sake of a prank."

Cuddy stood up from behind her table and laid her hand gently on Wilson's shoulder. She felt the tension in his muscles and spoke slowly, gently.

"James, look at me."

He reluctantly did so. There was pain in his eyes, the pain of someone forced to think badly of a friend.

She said, "House is a self-obsessed, manipulative, arrogant bastard. But we know he isn't evil. It's Cameron. They work together. He knows she has a crush on him. He wouldn't do something like this to her." She chuckled. "He'd sooner marry Chase."

"What you really mean is you want to believe that."

"I have to."

Shaking his head, Wilson stood up.

"I'm getting to the bottom of this, Lisa. They didn't really marry, not out of love or as a part of a normal relationship." He stared off into her window. "Maybe a debt and the mob are somehow involved. Or CIA, that's also completely believable."

"Of course, they didn't really marry! It's House. He wouldn't take advantage of her this way, but we need to find out what's going on."

Her grin was probably something that, had he been there, would reinforce House's belief that she was the Wicked Witch of the West. Cuddy didn't care.

"And when we do, House will regret this," she said, her voice low. "I'll have him chained in the clinic. He will check those runny noses. He will tell concerned parents it's not meningitis, and he will sound caring while he does so."

Wilson gulped when she glanced at him. This was going to be fun.

###

This was not fun. What the hell had he been thinking? House rode his bike home while Cameron took her car. His prank had made so much sense at the time that he had felt positively giddy. And now Cameron—no, Allison, better get used to calling her that sometimes—was going to grab some things from her place, come to his apartment, and stay for the night. He groaned and went faster.

Both of them had left half an hour early, citing their newlywed status as a reason, but their real goal was anything but crazy post-marital sexy-cuddly times. No, instead they needed to prepare. House still believed this could be his greatest prank yet, but it also required a special touch. He was expecting surprise visitors today. Spies, checking on them at random times.

He saw flashing lights in the rearview mirror and checked his speedometer.

"Fuck."

###

Cameron knocked, but there was no answer. No light to be seen in the windows either. She was glad they had chosen his apartment for their game, but he should have at least bothered to open the door. Cameron shuddered in anticipation—not in a good way—of what she'd have to do. He had told her where the spare key was, and House didn't believe in pot plants.

After retrieving the key from a mummified corpse of a cat House kept in a sealed bag behind the nearest garbage container, Cameron entered his apartment and switched on the lights. She then stepped back through the door and made sure she got the number right (although who else would use a dead animal for a spare key receptacle). No, the address wasn't wrong.

It was certainly House's apartment, only not. There were antique musical instruments, his gorgeous piano, a mini-bar, all sorts of little ends and oddities strewn about doing their best to clutter the expansive living room. There was also a bright-blue yoga mat—with blocks and belts on it—on the floor, aromatic sticks on a shelf nearby, and a bottle of apple juice on the coffee table facing the TV—things that didn't compute. Cameron started to move toward the kitchen when she heard the characteristic thump of House's cane behind her.

"Damn, didn't make it."

Allison turned to see him come in: sweating, breathing heavily, and overall looking half-crazy.

"What happened to you?"

"Met a police inspector. Tried to bribe him, didn't go well."

Cameron opened her mouth for an admonishment, but another thought occurred to her.

"And why are you here then? Shouldn't you be calling Wilson for bail?"

House grinned the grin of the raving.

"I got desperate and told him—get this—that I got married on Friday and was hurrying to my super-hot wife—which is technically true, might I add—and he just let me go. I tell you, this married thing is awesome. No wonder Wilson does it all the time."

House came in and started putting stuff away while he talked. The yoga equipment went into a drawer. He gulped down the remaining juice and threw it into a trash bin that was hidden inside a wardrobe. He then took a bottle of whiskey out of a minibar and put it on the coffee table.

"House?"

"Yes, Cameron?"

"Should I be running?"

He turned to her, nonplussed.

"Why?"

"Because you are being insane? What the hell are you doing?"

He scoffed and continued with his work.

"Cleaning up, obviously. Can't have anything incriminating lying around for when Wilson or Cuddy make their surprise visit. Well, more Cuddy than Wilson. Wilson knows some of it."

"I reiterate. Should I be running?"

"No, you should get comfortable. Come, sit down, I'll heat up some food or we can order take-out."

"You aren't going to explain what the hell is going on, are you?"

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'.

She simply stood there for a second but eventually decided that preserving her sanity took priority over fruitlessly trying to pry something from House. Not like that had worked in the past. Cameron slipped out of her high-heel shoes, moved to the couch as fast as she could and plopped down on it. A groan escaped her lips while House went to the coffee table and started breaking apart a small mountain of baking soda with a knife.

"I know a good orthopedist," said House without looking up.

She stared at him.

"You seriously expect to talk about my feet when you are in the process of faking a cocaine line?"

"What, you want one too? I didn't know you were that kind of girl, but, sure, why not?"

She couldn't help but play along.

"Who is your dealer?"

"Local supermarket, one dollar for a bag. Here you go, only the best cocaine for my wife."

With unbridled enthusiasm, House started making another line of white powder. It was shorter. Cameron frowned, and her boss was helpful enough to answer the unspoken question.

"Well, you are supposed to be less experienced with drugs. It's all part of the plan, you see."

Cameron suddenly decided that talking about her shoes wasn't such a bad idea.

"Why would I need an orthopedist?"

House snorted and gestured to her feet.

"Come on, Cameron, have you seen those things you walk in? Why can't you be more sensible? Like Cuddy."

"Cuddy is like a foot taller than me. And the shoes are Italian."

"Which matters why?"

"Everybody knows that four-hundred-dollar Italian shoes are enchanted to be as comfortable as sneakers."

House looked up from his handiwork, and they stared at each other for a few moments. Eventually, it was House who broke eye-contact and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"God. I wish I had known you had such a terrible sense of humor before I married you, Allison. And it's self-interest, really. What kind of lobby art will you be when your veins pop like purple anacondas all over your feet?"

There was a danger of the situation from devolving from juvenile to ridiculous, so Cameron decided not to comment.

"I'm touched, really. If you've finished setting up the scene— What are you doing now?" she asked, not able to ignore her curiosity.

House got up from the table he had been kneeling by and hobbled to the bedroom.

"Just final touches," he said over his shoulder.

After a few moments passed, House walked back into the room with something that was extremely familiar to Cameron. Her hands instinctively went to check whether he stole it from her or not, as insane as that sounded in her head. No, hers was still where it belonged.

"House?" she asked, channeling her inner Cuddy into the word.

A small shudder went over his body—apparently she succeeded. Still, House clumsily climbed onto the coffee table in the living room and reached up.

"Yes, Allison?"

"Why do you have my bra with you?"

And it was, indeed, a twin of the undergarments she'd worn in Vegas that House was fastening to the chandelier.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's not your bra. Just same brand and size." He said, smirk somewhat spoiled by obvious discomfort caused by not using his cane. "You didn't even comment on my ingenuity the morning after we got married, so I thought I'd try a different audience. Just think of the face Cuddy will make when she notices it."

Standing on his tiptoes wasn't something House was suited to after his injury and he wobbled dangerously on the groaning piece of furniture as he tried to throw the bra over one of chandelier's arms. Huffing, Cameron got up, walked up to him and circled her arms around his legs, steadying him.

At his curious glance, she explained, "I would like to eat soon, instead of splinting a broken leg. How the hell did you manage that back in Vegas, anyway?"

Eventually the chandelier ornament was in place, and House carefully stepped down. He flashed a mischievous smile at her, mimicked crouching and said, "Gently and slowly. Like a ninja."

He couldn't bend his knees properly due to his leg, but his delivery was so earnest that Cameron burst out laughing. Wiping a tear off her face, she said, "Oh, Greg, let's just eat."

They both froze for a barely perceptible fraction of a second—it felt like a stutter in reality, a moment outside of time. The first name itself wasn't an issue—she wasn't five. The taste of it, however, was a different thing altogether. There was none at all, in fact; to Cameron calling him 'Greg' at that moment felt as natural as doing gels for the immunology department. Like something she had done a thousand times and would do a thousand more.

"Yes, let's. There is some chicken we can heat up, or I can make an omelet…" said House.

The reality hiccup ended, and events resumed their normal pace. She didn't even need to coax House into cooking and after ten minutes or so was treated to a fairly decent omelet.

"A bit wet," she remarked.

House tasted a piece himself, chewing slowly, looking at her with curiosity.

"Yeah, a bit. I add some water for texture but as a result it gets all… soggy." House looked genuinely perturbed.

"Tried adding vodka?" Cameron asked.

House blinked a few times and made a show of cleaning his ears. "Care to run that by me again, Cameron? Why the hell would I do that? Whatever the gossip around the hospital might be, I don't actually slip whiskey into those sandwiches in the cafeteria." He paused. "Well, maybe once. But only to start the rumor."

Cameron rolled her eyes and pointed to the omelet with her fork.

"The problem with cooking an omelet, House, is getting that airy tender texture without whipping the eggs. Now, you've added water, and the vapor helped, but a lot of it condensed back—"

"Ethanol." He interrupted her but then frowned. "Why not use pure ethanol?"

She moved to speak, but he held up a finger.

"Wait. Yeah, that wouldn't be good. Too strong a solvent. So, vodka, huh?"

"Yes." Cameron nodded. She shouldn't have been surprised he instantly go it. "The alcohol vaporizes almost instantly, there is less water, and a bit of an aftertaste remains, giving the omelet just a bit of a kick."

House arched an eyebrow, and she could see a grin starting.

Cameron huffed and said, "Oh, don't look at me like that. Cooking can be fun. Besides, it's just a bit of alcohol in gas form trapped in the air bubbles inside the omelet. Taste-yes, but not like you can get drunk on it. And you use just a tablespoon per two eggs."

She leaned on the table and looked at House, making sure to meet his ice-blue eyes.

"So. Scrambled eggs in Vegas, omelet here—I'm sensing a theme," she said.

House shrugged, and she caught a hint of sheepishness.

"The cooking thing is still new. I'm trying to keep it simple: eggs, baked meat."

She pointed an accusatory fork at him.

"So you did survive on take-out and whiskey."

"Bite me, Allison," he said without real vehemence.

Soon they were done with the dinner, and she helped House clean up. He was so focused and abrasive at work that she never paid much attention to his limp anymore, but at home it became glaringly obvious how much pain simple walking caused him. Where he went, the cane went, even when he needed to take just one step sideways to get to the sink.

When he caught her staring at him for the tenth time, he said, "My therapist suggested that I 'stop playing hero and minimize pain when possible without popping meds'. Infuriating bastard."

"What's he like?"

She hopped onto a counter while House dried the plates with a towel. There was a washing machine, but he didn't use it.

"Matt? What, you need a shrink?"

 _For going along with you, I might_ , she thought.

"Just curious what kind of man could break through your disdain for the profession. I know lots of people suggested you get help before."

House snorted. He kept drying the plates, and she started thinking he wouldn't answer when he spoke.

"You know why I hate shrinks?"

"No, but I guess I'm about to find out."

"Everybody lies, Cameron." He walked to a kitchen chair and plopped down, stretching out his leg. "But therapists are the worst of the lot. They lie to you for money. Tell you that talking through your shit will help you become a better person."

"And Matt doesn't?"

"Matt is weird. I'm not sure he is all there himself, to be honest."

Cameron rolled her eyes.

"Will you stop that? I'm serious," he said, frowning. "At the first session the guy told me he can't fix me, I can't fix me, and pretty much implied I will die hurling snide remarks at everyone around me."

"Wow."

Matt sounded like a real piece of work. Which was strange, because no matter how abrasive House was himself, he didn't enjoy the company of jerks. Except for bitch-queen Stacy but she attributed that to nostalgia plus blue balls.

While she thought, House continued, "Yeah. And he really isn't interested in money. Has no more than two sessions a month with his patients."

"But that doesn't make any sense! What kind of progress can he expect?"

House looked at her with suspicion and she reddened.

She said, "A friend of mine went to a shrink for some issues. It was like two times a week and helped only a bit."

"Uh-huh." House seemed dubious but didn't press any further. "Anyway, he has this system. Calls it the triple-prong approach."

"Pretty sure that's bullshit."

"Well, he gives physical, emotional, and mental exercises. No guarantees and if you don't do them, he refers you to someone else."

"So that's why the yoga mat and the exercise equipment?"

"What can I say, can't leave the guy until I beat him at Call of Duty. You can use it, by the way."

"What? Your PlayStation?"

Now it was time for House to roll his eyes.

"No, princess, the yoga equipment. I assume you are into some aerobics or some such teenage bullshit."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Why do you think so?" she asked, not comfortable at all at House's level of insight.

"Well, your ass wouldn't look that smashing in everything form-hugging—"

"What a refreshingly inappropriate compliment."

"—if you didn't work out. And you are a bit too curvy for long-distance running, and there is too much body-fat for bodybuilding—"

"You know what? I don't want to hear the rest."

Of course, it was impossible to stop House once he got to explaining his deduction chains. The man had literally chased people down to finish explaining his thought process to them. Personally, Cameron thought it was a very mild case of OCD.

"So it is probably either a bit of everything, some sort of aerobics, or a bastardized version of yoga," House said.

"Bastardized? When did you become a yoga purist?"

House pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Cameron." His voice was saccharine. "You are in your twenties. You are healthy. You are flexible. Why in the living hell would you do only static poses and spend ten minutes lying and relaxing per fifteen minutes of exercise?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Kids these days," he said, tutting. "Don't you ever go back to the source? If you read the Patandzhali Sutras—the origin of yoga—and I mean the original, not the translations—"

"You can read Sanskrit?" she asked, shocked.

"Of course I can. Don't interrupt. It clearly says that yoga poses—asanas—have to be static and comfortable. So if what you are doing is accompanied by discomfort, that's not following the system. Hence, bastardized."

She scoffed and said, "Micro-traumas are a perfectly fine way to exercise muscle. I'm not an invalid, why would I—"

His face darkened and she sputtered.

"Wait, House, I didn't mean—"

He turned away and started walking toward the bathroom.

"Greg!"

He didn't turn, just said over his shoulder, "You'll find the towels in the wardrobe in the bedroom. Lower shelf."

She moved after him, but he could limp unbelievably fast when he wanted to. He slammed the bathroom door in her face, and she could immediately hear the sound of rushing water.

 _Great going, Allison. Just great._

Chapter end notes

Never thought writing fluff would be so fun. I'm enjoying writing this story far more than I probably should. I'll take a bit of a pause before the next chapter. Need to watch an episode or two, work on "Eye of the Sword" and my novel—that sort of stuff.

I hope I did a decent job channeling House and Cameron for this chapter. Next up will be a surprise visit to House's apartment and them messing around with everyone's heads at work. Which means I'll need to look up a couple episodes for the medical stuff, then get hooked and re-watch half a season.

A couple of disclaimer-ish notes.

I respect therapists, but House doesn't. He's been refusing getting a professional to help with his issues with for so long that the only kind of specialist capable of getting through to him is someone who gives House the tools and leaves most of the responsibility to him. At least in this story.

About yoga. As some of you might have guessed, I practice, and yes, it's the boring 'static poses, lots of relaxation kind of yoga' that House mentions. I don't have anything against sports of other schools of yoga, but thanks to the fact that I have arthritis and a trauma or two, this kind of exercise is the only kind I can do without risk of damage. Let me tell you, at 27 it's no fun, but hopefully it lets me understand House's character a bit better, so at least something good comes out of it.

House is a cripple who has been neglecting physio. Before he started actively working on the problem, in addition to pain, all his muscles would be unequal in development and this in turn would probably result in frequent cramps throughout his body and just plain old discomfort (and does in this story's backstory). His resentment toward people capable of normal, active exercise—like aerobics, skateboarding, or mountain-skiing—is understandable, I hope.

Stay shiny and until next time.


End file.
